I lean over Ashley and glare at him. “What the hell are you doing parking in my spot?”
He bends down and peers into my car. His dark eyebrows rise, and amber eyes shimmer back at me. Water soaks his black hair and trickles down his cheeks, only accentuating how perfect and angular they are.
A smirk pulls at his picture-perfect lips. “Your spot? Nice try, sweetheart.”
He winks at me, slams his door, and jogs around the side of the SUV and into the building I share a wall with.
“Shit.”
Is that jerk renting the place next door?
Ashley’s jaw drops. “Oh, my God. Do you know who that is?”
I shift back into my seat and hit the button to raise Ashley’s window so she doesn’t end up soaked. “No, what the hell does it matter who he is? The asshole just took my parking spot!”
“That's Jameson Fury—”
A car horn blaring behind me has me jerking to look in the rearview mirror at a vehicle waiting.
“Shit.” I take my foot off the brake and make my way farther down the block, scanning for somewhere to park now that my space has been occupied by that prick.
Ashley digs around the back of my car through all the junk and grabs something. “You know who Jameson Fury is, right? Winner of Prime Chef on Webflix last year? Voted Hottest Chef in New York?”
She waves something around, and I turn the corner and pull over illegally in front of a fire hydrant just to see what it is.
Foodie Magazine.
An issue I remember very well. The one with a shirtless, dark-haired, smoking-hot guy crossing his arms over his chest on the cover. The look he gives the camera is so dirty, it’s almost a promise he's going to tear off your panties and fuck you on the table he stands behind.
A shiver rolls through me, just looking into those same dark eyes that locked with mine only a minute ago. “That was Jameson Fury back there?”
She nods, and I glance up and down the street. No available spots.
I could be parked and inside and working already if it weren’t for him. Now I’ll waste half my morning driving around and then get there soaked. “Well, I don’t care who the fuck he is. He’s a dick. We're going to be driving around, looking for a spot forever.”
“I think you have a bigger problem than that.”
“Oh, yeah, what's that?” I pull back out onto the street and continue scanning for a spot.
“Iz, he parked in front of your building and went into the door right next to yours. What do you think Jameson Fury, the hottest chef in New York, is doing there?”
A heavy sense of dread wraps around my spine. “Oh, shit. You don't think he's opening a restaurant, do you?”
I catch her shrug out of the corner of my eye as I turn down the next block.
“I don't know, Iz, but it’s definitely a possibility.” She leans forward and points. “Look! There's a spot.”
Thank God!
But of course, it’s tiny, and I need to parallel park to get into it.
Of fucking course.
I throw on my blinker, pull past the spot, and throw my arm across the back of Ashley’s seat so I can turn and see what I’m doing. The move sends a tiny twinge through my side that I brush to the back of my mind so I can focus on the task at hand. Ashley knows better than to try to talk to me while I’m doing this. I’m a decent parallel parker—a skill I had to learn to master young growing up in Brooklyn—but this is a tight spot, and with my adrenaline running this high already, I don’t need any interruptions.
After a minute of finagling, I finally throw the car into park and drop my forehead against the steering wheel, giving myself a moment to process what she just said. “Great, so now we can get soaked running a block and a half back to the building where this douchebag might be opening a competing restaurant right next door?”
Ashley squeezes my shoulder gently, and I force myself to drag my head up and look at her.
She grins at me. “Look at the silver lining. He is the hottest chef in New York, and he's right next door. At least you’ll have something nice to look at every day.”
Maybe that’s a bonus for her, but I’m not in any place in my life to enjoy looking at a handsome man—even if he weren’t an asshole, which he clearly is. There are too many other things going on, things that need my attention constantly. Any distractions are dangerous to my plans and goals.
Ashley can come to ogle Jameson Fury. I have my priorities straight.
JAMESON
I almost feel bad for the blonde who wanted the parking spot. Almost. But I'm not about to give it up to walk a couple blocks in this rain—not when I got here first, fair and square.
I'm already wet enough just from stopping to talk to her for a second.
Nothing like wet clothes to make your day shit.
I run my hand back through my hair to squeegee out some water, but that only pushes it down my thoroughly soaked white T-shirt, making it even wetter—which I didn’t think was possible.
It clings to my chest and abs like it's painted on me. Even my jeans are soaked just from getting out of the car and running in. This is going to be a long day if I'm cold and miserable. But I don’t have much choice. No time to run home and grab a change of clothes.
If we have any chance of getting this place opened quickly, there isn’t any time to waste getting things rolling.
I glance around the building to take in all the work that needs to be done. Danny should be here any minute to start sketching out the final plans for my dream restaurant and take the measurements. I sent him the preliminary layout, but we need to get all the specifics before ordering the equipment and furniture and really getting to work.
With Graham’s money on the line, any delays aren’t just costing me; they’re costing him. Owing anyone anything rubs me the wrong way, but none of this would be possible at all without him. That means I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure this place is a success as soon as possible.
This place needs to be up and running in two months…three months…tops. Which means, the list of things to do is endless. I pull the folded sheet containing the things I thought of out of my pocket and try to peel the wet paper apart. The ink spreads out across the pages in blobs.
Shit. At least it's still legible.
Order sign for outside.
Order kitchen appliances.
Order tables, chairs, and other furniture.
Order plates, glasses, other décor.
Hire manager, waitstaff, kitchen staff.
Have Danny schedule inspections.
It goes on, and on, and on…
But until Danny gets here, I can start making some calls and trying to make some headway on this shit. I wander over to the windowsill and lower myself down on it since it’s the only real place to sit right now to search for the number of the sign maker Graham recommended—somebody he used on another project—and hit send.
“Hello, Waters and Sons Signs, how can I help you?” The woman’s perky tone this early in the morning when I’m sitting here cold and wet grates on my nerves.
“Hi, yes, I need to order a sign for a restaurant.”
“Oh, okay, do you have any idea what size and type?”
I grin to myself, picturing it hung above the brick outside. It’s something I’ve been giving a lot of thought, but one vision has been clear in my head since the moment I first decided to go to culinary school. “Red neon with flames around it.”